Translucent
by LittleMissMorbid
Summary: She hated that dog because it told her every day that she’d chosen the wrong man, and there was no going back." Dark Dasey.


The water gurgled as she took the sponge and wet it. The dish soap, a bright, translucent green, made its oily descent into the water with a silent fury. It spread, and then began its foamy takeover. She held the dishware in her hands gently, as if they were children instead of eating utensils. They were washed with an equal sense of maternal love. If she'd had a child, she'd be a good mother.

It hurt her greatly that she'd never had a child. She would have loved it like any mother. Ten years ago, she'd planned to be in love and have the picket fence, a golden retriever, and the two-point-five kids. Everyone's American dream.

Instead, she had a rusted, senile chain-link fence, a weedy yard, and an aggressive Labrador mix that enjoyed only her husband's company. She began to scrub the dishes harder, the stress beginning its descent with no chance of an end.

She hated that dog. How it growled at her when she fed it, when she picked up its disgusting, drool and germ infested toys. She hated how it was a symbol of her own pathetic, miserable life. She hated that dog because it told her every day that she'd chosen the wrong man, and there was no going back.

The door opened, and her husband ignored her. He sat down at the table and stared at her with his beady eyes, commanding her silently to bring his him food, the dinner that he was three hours late for. She did not argue with him. She brought him his dinner. He grabbed it roughly and did not utter a word of gratitude. He complained that the meat was tough, the vegetables were too soft, and the bread was stale.

The dog sat next to him, a rumble emanating from its throat. The man laughed at this, patted its head, and gave it the meat she'd spent an hour seasoning and baking.

She returned to her dishes. She scrubbed until she could see herself in the heavy, sharp steel.

She looked tired. Deep black circles were around her eyes. She was thin, too thin, and her cheeks were gaunt. Her shoulders hunched forward. Her hair, usually a thick, glorious dark brown, was stringy and thin. This girl was nothing like the girl on her wedding day.

Her husband yelled at her, telling her she was worthless. She'd forgotten to tape the game on TV. He'd spent all day working, and she couldn't do _one _thing for him?

She knew for a fact he got off at five. He got home at eight. Their thin, wispy bodies and innocent giggles and wet lips kept him occupied for three hours. He fucked them as easily as he lied to them.

Answer me! He yelled, grabbing her bony shoulder and pulling her to meet his gaze. Water and steel was pulled along with her, and he grew angrier at being wetted by the dirty and lukewarm water.

Her hand jerked, and his anger died out. His shirt was wet. He let out a gurgle, a wasted, pathetic sound that satisfied her. His dog roared at her, leaping toward her with bared teeth.

It let out a yelp, and landed on top of its master.

Her sock-covered feet were soaked. She slipped off the wet clothing and watched the man and his dog stare at her in pain. She watched them with a cold smile.

Her hand rose.

His head shattered. Over and over again. Spurting his mortality. His eyes gushed out of his sockets. They oozed an odd yellow liquid. The dog whined.

She breathed heavily, feeling the pleasure of exertion and freedom.

She called nine-one-one. The cops found her in a corner, holding the carving knife as if it were an infant.

The cops were disgusted by the massacre. The ruins made them gag, made them gaze at her as if she were a monster. When they took her into the car, she smiled at them. Uneasiness grew in their stomachs. They couldn't meet her eyes.

She was driven to the station, given a fresh set of clothes after she washed herself in icy water. They took her into questioning, and she answered their questions in honesty. Her smile grew deeper as she answered every question.

Her trial was set. She was guilty.

They would kill her. She asked, the day before her murder, to see someone. They obliged, for she had never been a problem. She was devoid of emotion.

She brushed her hair, washed her face. Tried to make herself as pretty as she could.

He came, looking broken, looking torn apart by her actions.

Why? He asked, his voice breaking.

She looked at her, her eyes filling with her own pain. Because I love you, she said.

Casey, he whispered, in a strangled hiss, oh, God. Why didn't you tell me?

She wept. Look at me, she said, look at how pathetic I am. I let one man define me and control me. Would you truly love a woman like that?

He took her into his arms, held her, and cried. They cried together, the pain too much, the _what-if_s running through their heads, causing deep, red slashes.

I wouldn't have cared what you were like, Casey. I would have loved you all the same. He said, his brown eyes drilling into hers.

He kissed her, feverishly, hard, wanted to take all of her, wanting to bring her home and put her back together again, to teach her what real love was like.

The cops entered her cell, and informed her that her time was up.

I love you, Derek Venturi. She said, crying harder, Don't you ever forget that.

He kissed her. Casey, he whispered, _Casey. _

The day she died, she looked at him, and only him. He watched back. They cried, not caring what others thought or wondered.

I love you, she mouthed.

I love you too, he answered.

She closed her eyes, and died with a smile.


End file.
